


For Want of a Sandwich

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: And needs looking after, Because he forgets, Feeding Morse, Gen, Protectiveness, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 03:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18730759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Morse always looks like he hadn't eaten a good meal in weeks, Jakes reasons, one eye on his report and the other studying the detective from across the room. No reason to start – he mentally stutters at the word – worrying, just because of a couple of dark circles. Bony wrists, he adds morbidly. Sunken cheeks.





	For Want of a Sandwich

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I can't never think of a good title...

Morse always looks like he hadn't eaten a good meal in weeks, Jakes reasons, one eye on his report and the other studying the detective from across the room. No reason to start – he mentally stutters at the word – _worrying,_ just because of a couple of dark circles. Bony wrists, he adds morbidly. Sunken cheeks. After what he's been -

He throws down his pen. “All right. Enough. Lunch at the Lamb, who's coming?” He stands, draws on his coat and checks both pockets, full; cigarettes a familiar weight in the left. There's no response from the mass of desks, sparsely populated at the moment. A WPC in one corner rightly assumes he didn't mean her, and keeps on filing, the clang of the cabinet drawers echoing across the room. Morse keeps his head down, pen scratching quickly across the paper, but there's none of his usual glow – satisfaction or irritation – that heralds he's on one of his deductive leaps. God forbid any of them interrupt one of those.

“Not a request Morse, on your feet.”

It's a while since he's used the chain of command on Morse, and he's pleased to see the old rankle is still there. Morse takes his time re-capping his pen, tidying his papers, locating his coat – with a sly glance up through his eyelashes to take in Jakes' frown. He makes sure to deepen it, playing into expectation, though he doesn't quite know why.

“Yes sir,” Morse says quietly, accidentally brushing sleeves with Jakes on the way out. Jakes' frown deepens for real at the simple respect, the lack of bite. In a flash, he wonders – how long had Morse held onto his pride when inside? Had he had to let it go? Why? When? He bristles, coughs against the sudden catch in his throat. Which... he mentally trails off, but forces his thoughts to continue, owes it to himself, to Morse – which guard, exactly, does Jakes need to have a chat with? Which guard had-

Taken Morse away from himself, his subconscious insists. No, he argues against himself. Morse has always looked like he needs a good meal.

“I suppose that means you're buying?” Morse interrupts, unaware, and Jakes' shoulders relax. The respect's just a cover for a free pint. He hides his smile, buoyed with relief, by fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette. He makes sure to blow the smoke in Morse's direction as they walk the couple of streets down to the old pub, and by the time they're halfway there his breathing is regular again. The warmth he feels is just exertion, he tells himself, nothing to do with the glares and elbow jabs coming his way after a breeze at the wrong time ensures Morse ends up with a lungful.

When their food comes, Jakes looks out the window. Sandwich in one hand and eyes firmly fixed on the expanse of St Giles' street, he watches, from the corner of his eye, as Morse inhales an egg and cress of his own and downs two pints of bitter. They talk of murder and mayhem – what passes for a safe topic, which perhaps says a bit too much about them. No emotions to trip over though, just the latest case; a puzzle, for Morse, the job for Jakes.

They walk back quickly, lunch break nearly over and in danger of being late. It might be the sun that's come out after struggling with cloud all morning, or it might be the pace – but Morse's shadows seem to have lightened, his cheeks pink, and he no longer looks quite so gaunt. Jakes' gives him a playful shove back to his desk, and Morse's back is warm and feels solid through his coat.

Jakes reaches for his cigarettes before taking off his own coat. It swings awkwardly as he hooks it back on the stand. The ring for Hope – best he could afford, but still nothing showy – hangs heavy in the right-hand pocket, disturbing the line.

“Jakes?” His head snaps up. “Body's been found on the banks of the Cherwell near Folly Bridge,” Morse is swinging his coat back over his shoulders, and Jakes finds himself mirroring the action, too aware of the bump of ring-box against his thigh. “Thursday will meet us there,” he adds, smiling as Jakes flings the car keys across the room at him.

Morse will be fine, Jakes reasons. He just needs a few good meals first. No need to tell him just yet.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had grand plans this bank holiday weekend to work on two longer fics I have half written - one gen, and one Morse/Debryn. Instead you're getting random little ficlets, so sorry about that. Hopefully you'll get the more substantial stuff soon!


End file.
